


Residence

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [8]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Servant, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Unashamed curtain fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1634, Blois. When a man decides to keep a garden, is a sign that a house can become a home. Grimaud POV.<br/>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place between the two chapters of ["Roche-l'Abeille"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3784456/chapters/8418022)

_Coming together is a beginning._  
Keeping together is progress.  
Working together is success.  
~ Henry Ford

 

Bragelonne was not great, definitely. Three days in this small property and we had met with precious treasures and abject calamity.

The house needed repairs, some of them urgent. My master had decreed that no one used the main staircase at least not until we could repair the crumbling steps; but the wooden paneling of the salon just needed some glass paper and a little oil and would be the envy of the region. The drawing-room was spacious and had two walls of shelves full of good wood but they would not last long, the floor needed to be replaced because the termite was doing a dinner with it. The mansion had a good kitchen, with two large ovens, and a hearth to feed an army; it was worth the work to take away all those years of soot.

I almost let out a cry of joy when we discovered a hot-house between the two wings, the windows still worked, no one had stolen the stove, and the land was good black soil, still wet from the defrosting. Without intending to, my mind got wings and I began to think about the amount of flowers that large room could accommodate and protect from winter cold. For that reason, I was heart-broken when my master opened his mouth.

"Should tear it down," said my master before lifting the bottle again and gulping down the wine.

I did not know what was sadder to me: that he did not know how to appreciate such loot, or that he was so drunk that barely uttered a word.

The last few months, my master had been drinking continuously, and what was worse for me, sleeping in any corner when the wine was too much for him, those were long naps from which he woke up shacked. And above all, the few words he said betrayed that life had no pleasures for him. I suspected my master was not satisfied with the move, but I did not understand his reasons.

On the second day we explore the rooms on the second floor, two large rooms for masters; four bedrooms, with two small cabinets. All required work, the furniture of the most needed replacement; it was great fortune that he had the furniture from La Fère that we selected last winter. My master remained apathetic to these discoveries, as if having a property, one that would allow him hold his name near an almost royal court, meant nothing.

I pointed out the main room, thinking that perhaps it would cheer him a little to think about having a space so large and comfortable to sleep; he mumbled something about bad walls. My master ended up selecting a small room in the southern wing that had a small cabinet included. Apparently the previous owner had the idea of adapting it to the fireplace heat both the cabinet and the bedroom; it was by far the most comfortable room. I had to admire his practicality, for it was away from the northerly winds; but would it hurt me that he was so modest in his expectations.

That morning we had explored the basement. In the northern wing was a large room that seemed to have been used as rooms for the service, if those partially destroyed bunks served as an indication. My master frowned. The place was too cold, poorly ventilated and humid to be of any use. That part of the house was too close to the well. That room could not have continuous use. In the southern wing, we find an area to store food and some wine cellars with large barrels. I recovered a few happy moments spent with my master in some inn in Picardy, and smiled at him, wanting to share the memory, and hoping that he also found it pleasant; but all his answer was reviewing whether the barrels still contained some wine. One of twenty was still full, but even that find did not make him smile.

In sum, these last three days, my master and I had worked hard, and I was brimming with ideas, but he had a growing black humor.

I remember we celebrated the Visitation. As it was holiday, my master decided to lie on the grass and leave the work for another day. Seeing that he took that attitude, I filled a jug with the wine found in the basement, put some bread and a bit of sausage and cheese on a plate. A meal in the open air might lighten his mood a bit. He threw the wine under his belt and handed me the jar at once, expecting me to fill it again. I did it, reluctantly. I was aware that my plan did not work.

Several pitchers later, as dusk fell over the landscape of Blois, master yawned and I was surprised when he decided to use my crossed legs as a pillow. It was an intimate gesture, something he had never done in the light of the sun, and that moved me. I could not help it; after all, I am only a human and a sinner. I forced myself to not make him a caress; I did not have his permission and did not want to break the contact. I just smiled and reached out to take a piece of bread. For a while we just keep quiet, sharing in that silence that so familiar to us.

“You like it,” whispered my master as the sun was setting.

It was not a question, but I nodded. He did not even turn to me. My master was so insightful: he had noticed my joy.

“I hate it,” he said and his tone left no doubt that he meant it.

That baffled me. I did not think he would miss Paris, that awful crowded city of bad smells and noise. For years, I saw him wake up and open the window as if expecting to see more than buildings and soot. I recognize that longing, for I was a country boy too, and I missed the wind and trees. Perhaps, he had overcome his upbringing and missed the court more than the countryside.

“Good house,” I tried to explain, looking at the clouds in the sky.

“It’s a wreck,” he said, his hand sought the half carafe of wine.

I never thought that the state of the property was too important, we would keep at it and we would get it in pristine condition. It crossed my mind that maybe my master was concerned about the costs, in fact, much of the repairs required to recruit staff and invest in materials. It was a manor house and needed much work, perhaps the savings of a musketeer would not be enough.

“Good land.”

“It’s exile.”

The statement was lapidary.

Now, I understood, it was too obvious. His family had deliberately isolated him. La Fère was under the control of a relative and it was unfair to ask him to surrender the land, since he had family, and my master was a bachelor or widower, I was not sure how the others saw him; Bragelonne was a compensation, but it was too far from the lands of the Montmorency, north and south, and there will not be family around; and this property required a master to take care of it, he could not dwelt in Paris, and live on rent. I wondered if his failed marriage would cease to haunt him some day. Here, in Blois, he knew no one, although I did not see how it could be a problem for him to be loved by a good number of people, even without carrying the title of Count in plain sight.

Had it not been for his friends, maybe now my master does not feel thus; but he had developed strong friendships with these three men, dinners and games had kept them together, and the crime had separated them. Even M. D'Artagnan, with whom he had spent more time in the last five years, had been distancing himself from my master; although they shared some casual dinners, the relationship was not the same.

“Home soon,” I assured him, while inside I swore I would do everything in my power to make him feel at ease.

He grunted, and quaffed his wine. My words did not seem to have the effect I expected. My master remained lying on his side as the sun was finished to set behind the massive forests of his property. I did not mind his silence; he would turn inward when something bothered him, but my legs were numb and I wanted change position, but I did not dare to disturb his rest, nor wanted him to stay away from me. I racked my brain trying to find a way in which we both could be comfortable, and while I was at it, my master seemed to take a decision.

“Since we'll be spending the rest of our wretched lives in this decrepit property, Grimaud,” my master began to state, his voice was hoarse by the wine, and his diction was not good, but for me it was crystal clear. “I think we would have a hobby.”

My surprise must have been clear, because he rolled until he was face up and his blue eyes looked at me. His face was the expression of bliss and, after the last few days, that put me on guard.

“I know about your garden in Paris,” he informed me, he even cracked a smile.

His words embarrassed me. I would not call ‘garden’ at my unsuccessful attempts to grow some flowers in that hateful city. His landlady thought I was crazy, and I never thought that my master had noticed the flower pots next to the stairs. For years, I nursed these pots filled with poor land and sprinkled them with hard water, but I never managed any of the plants went from being a sprout. I was desperate to have something nice to see.

“I give you that,” my master awarded magnanimous, pointing with his hand at the planting beds, settled immediately after the gate; the plants had dried up for lack of care. “Provided that you inform me what plants they are. I do not want to look silly if someone asks me...”

I tried to bow to thank him for his gift, as it was my custom. I did not think about it. That was not only difficult to achieve, given the position we were in, but put my face at kissing distance of his. Desire quite overcame me. I almost jumped when I realized that, but apparently my master had not worried at all. This lack of reaction made me feel anxious and I keep hoping it was that my master was too used to my nearness, not that he was drunk enough as not to remember that he had done me a great gift.

“Master...,” I called out, a little nervous, because I knew it was not my place to beg.

“Hmmm...” was his reply, he was sleepy.

“Hot-house?”

“Useless,” my master snarled and took his head from my legs to roll in the grass; ready to sleep.

“Not so,” I replied, trying not to lose his attention and not distract me with the tingling in my legs. “Bouquets”

“Bouquets,” repeated my master, and then he lay still, in silence.

It took a while before I could get off the ground and went for a blanket to protect my master from the chill of the night.

***

By the next day, I had almost forgotten the gift. My master woke up snarling, and grumpy; maybe he had a headache for all that wine. I did not want to bother him, at least not with a matter of little consequence; I followed him, and obey his instructions about what to throw out and what to keep. In a moment of clarity, my master had decided that the two main rooms would become his fencing hall and maybe a room to receive many visitors, if the situation arose. The problem was to remove a stone wall of solid thickness, but I knew my master, once he had got something in the head, he had to carry it out.

By noon, we had both gotten rid of the shirt, we were covered in masonry dust and sweating like we had not done in a while; but we managed to make a good sized hole. My master and I seemed to work at a good pace and in a couple of days we could remove the wall. For safety, we put the stones in one corner, once we had cleared the bulk, we took a break, sipping wine and munching the last of the bread that we had, we would have to buy more soon. As my mind wandered on these important issues, my master sat down to rest on the pile of stones, and with a casual tone, he asked:

“So ... What will you grow?”


End file.
